


Calling Me As You Fade to Black

by Brink182



Category: White Collar
Genre: Abuse, Adult Situations (obviously), Angst (like whoa), Drama, F/M, Gangbang, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Some Bondage, description of Rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:25:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brink182/pseuds/Brink182
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal Caffrey is attacked and left in a coma, leaving his friends to pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Comatose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal is attacked and left in a coma. His friends are left to pick up the pieces.

** Calling Me as You Fade to Black **

** By: Brink182 **

 

 **Disclaimer:** Anything you recognize from _White Collar_ is the property of the respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of me. I'm in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of _White Collar_. No copyright infringement is intended. Please don't sue.

****************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

** Chapter One: Comatose **

The room was silent, save for the steady hum and beep of the machines and monitors in the hospital room. The figure on the bed was beaten to the point of being unrecognizable. His long list of injuries included but was not limited to: a fractured jaw and cheekbones, broken nose, a few missing teeth, bruises everywhere, and broken fingers. Beautiful blue eyes were closed in deep unconsciousness. He'd been found in an alley in the early morning. A pile of shredded clothing was found in a nearby dumpster. The only thing still on him was one of those house arrest devices.

Peter Burke sat at the bedside of the man believed to be Neal Caffrey. He'd read the police report and saw the photos taken at the crime scene. He knew the basics of what had happened. The worst were the empty beer bottles with their necks covered in blood and the metal pipe with a bloody end. At first, he had told himself it was a mistake. It had to be.  
Peter stared at Neal's splinted and bandaged fingers.

"I don't know if you can hear me, but we're going to find whoever did this to you," he promised.

He received no response from the comatose man. Peter sighed heavily and sank his face into his hands. His head shot back up when the door quietly opened. It was a female doctor.

"Hello," she said, "I'm Doctor Rogers."

"Agent Burke," said Peter, "how is he?"

"As well as can be expected, considering everything," replied Dr. Rogers.

"Do you know when he'll wake up?"

"It's difficult to say at this point. He might not."

***

El came to take her husband's place at Neal's bedside. She couldn't believe that anyone could hurt Neal like that. It was just horrible. _Poor Neal_. She stroked his hair softly.

"Pull through this, okay?" she asked him.

Neal gave no response.

***

Peter was in the hospital waiting room, talking to Jones on his cell phone.

"I know it's an NYPD case," said Peter, "but I promised Neal I'd find who attacked him!"

"I'll talk to my cousin Sheldon. He's a CSI," replied Jones.

"Thanks, Jones," said Peter.

June and Mozzie arrived at nearly the same time.

"Where's Neal?" demanded Mozzie.

"Relax, Haversham," said Peter, "he's in ICU. One visitor at a time and El's in there right now."

Mozzie grumbled and stalked off to find an empty chair.

"How-how is he?" inquired June.

"Er…why don't we wait for El to come back? She can explain it," said Peter.

June looked suspiciously at Peter, but went to sit in a chair quietly.

***

When Elizabeth returned to the waiting room, she saw Mozzie and June in addition to her husband. Peter suggested that she tell them Neal's condition. She told what she knew as gently as possible. June looked like she was on the verge of tears. Mozzie was paler than usual.

"I want to see him," he declared.

Mozzie stood in the doorway of Neal's room. Neal looked asleep. Mozzie told himself that's all he was. Just sleeping. Hooked up to a bunch of machines and monitors, but sleeping. He didn't even look like Neal. All the bruises and swelling made his face look completely different. Mozzie edged closer to the chair beside the bed. It was strange to see him so still. He didn't even twitch. Not at all. He wanted to blame the Suit for this. Things like this never happened before Neal started working for Them. Mozzie sighed.

"I knew something like this would happen if you kept working for Them," Mozzie told Neal, "but no. You just never listen."

Mozzie imagined that Neal would roll his eyes in response.

_"I Told You So? Very mature, Moz. What is this? Third grade?"_

And Mozzie would reply that mature or not, he was still right. Neal would probably humor him and tell him that of course he was. When Mozzie went back to the waiting room, he told the Suit he'd better find out who had hurt Neal. He said he would and Mozzie actually believed him.  
***  
June was used to hospitals. She'd certainly seen more than her fair share of them. She was not used to seeing Neal in one, though. She gracefully lowered herself into the only chair in the room. It was like seeing one of her own children or grandchildren in that bed.

"My poor dear Neal."

She hoped he'd recover quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no explanation for this other than it just randomly appeared in my head one day.


	2. What Happened Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened that sent Neal to the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not very nice for Neal. Be warned.

** Chapter Two: What Happened Before **

Neal Caffrey was walking home from the Salon de Ning; a posh rooftop bar at the Peninsula Hotel, when he was hit on the head from behind. He awoke with a sore head. His wrists were bound in front of himself with metal wire as well as his ankles. His silk tie had been stuffed inside his mouth and he tried not to choke on it. That would have been embarrassing. Asphyxiation from choking on his own tie.

“Looks like the twink’s awake,” said a voice.

Neal took offense to that. Just because he wasn’t built like a Terminator and took pride in looking his best, did not mean he was a twink.

***

He was surrounded by five very large men. Each fist was bigger than his head. They closed in around him.

“We don’t like pretty little twinks like you,” said a second man.

He was kicked and punched countless times. Neal moaned in pain. Five pairs of hands grabbed at his suit and quickly tore it to shreds. He was now fully naked, except for his tracking anklet.

***

Neal cried out but was muffled by the tie in his mouth, as he was violated by an empty beer bottle. He tried to tell them to stop and almost choked on the wad of silk in his mouth. Whenever he tried to loosen his bonds, the wire dug into his skin. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of his chest like a freaky alien. He could feel himself starting to hyperventilate but couldn't organize his thoughts enough to try to stop it or the dizziness it brought with it. His stomach clenched in revulsion. He frantically willed his mind to clear enough to try to think of something to do. Anything. Anything but stay here and allow this to happen. _Why? Why are they doing this?!!_ The question was like a broken record by now; the only thing his terrified mind could think of. Each man had his own bottle to use.

***

He was grabbed by his hair and pulled up onto his knees. A large hand grasped his chin.

“Open that pretty mouth of yours.”

Neal shook his head in defiance.

“Fine.”

Neal’s head was held still and his jaw pried open. Thick fingers invaded his mouth, pulling out the tie.

“We’ve got a little present for ya, Pretty Boy,” said a third voice.

He had a hand on his belt buckle. Neal’s blue eyes widened and he shook his head violently. A hand on a belt buckle signified one of two things: either they were going to fuck him, or they were going to beat him. Again. Either way, this wasn't looking good. What he wouldn't give to have Peter, good reliable Peter, jump out of the shadows with his Glock 17. Alright, so it was a classic cliché, and he wasn't a damsel, but he was in distress, deep, deep distress and wouldn't be averse to a little saving any time now. Now would be good in fact, because Terminator Three was unzipping his pants.

_Breathe, Neal._

“Don’t! Please!”

“He looks so pretty when he begs,” sneered Oversized Goon number four. Or was it five? He was staring to lose track of the numbers and names he‘d assigned.

“You want money? I have that, a lot of it.”

 

Terminator two was looking thoughtful; rubbing at the silk tie fisted in his meaty palm.

 

“It’s yours-no harm, no foul-just let me go right now and I forget all about this. It’s not too late to just walk away.”

 

_Seriously? Did you just say that it **wasn’t** too late to just walk away from this?_

_And, like who exactly am I going to tell? Peter?_

No, there would be no telling Peter. If he did he’d never be able to look the man in the eye again. This was his own fault. Money wouldn’t save him this time, they were so hyped up on drugs and lust that all they saw was what they wanted right now.

 

_Him._

“I don’t want money; I want you to blow me,” Goon number three snarled and tightened his grip on Neal’s hair.

Neal winced while the others laughed rough throated snorts that sounded as crude as they looked. All talk of money was soon forgotten. Neal’s head was held in place by the vice-like grip that was on his hair, as the erect cock came closer to his lips.

“Open your mouth.”

Neal complied, afraid of what they’d do if he refused and hating himself for giving in so quickly. The hand gripping his hair jerked his head back and forth along the rigid phallus.

“You like cock? I think you do.”

“You’re just a dirty slut.”

Neal would have responded with a witty retort, if his mouth hadn’t been already occupied. Hot, sticky fluid suddenly filled his mouth and the now limp cock withdrew, only to be replaced with another erection. Neal went through the same drill as before. The third guy pushed himself as far into Neal’s mouth as he could. Neal gagged and almost choked on it. Neal was coughing, little milky particles flying out of his mouth as Bad Guy Number Four grabbed a fistful of his hair.

“You’re gonna deep throat me as well, Pretty Boy.”

***

Neal felt sick. The tie was stuffed into his mouth again.

“Now that we’ve loosened you up a bit, the _real_ fun can begin.”

Neal was pretty certain he didn’t want any part of this so-called ‘fun’. One of the men held a metal pipe. It was about as big around as the average cucumber or zucchini. Neal shook his head frantically as he was situated on his hands and knees in the alley. He tried to crawl away, but was grabbed before he took more than a few steps and held still. A flicker of impatience flashed across Thug One’s face at the weak struggle and he suddenly reached up and slapped Neal across the face; a hard, stinging blow that split his lip and rocked his head against the asphalt, stunning him and blurring his vision. Neal teetered on the edge of consciousness until he was brought back by the sound of Thug Four’s voice.

“What's the matter, don't like our surprise, Twink?”

 

_No!_ Neal wanted to shout out, _no way in Hell!_

Neal was held down by several pairs of large hands as something cold and metal made contact with his backside.

***

This was agony. Deep burning agony. He wept, wishing it would just end. He felt the blood drip down his legs onto the pavement. The men laughed at him and began kicking and hitting him like at the beginning, but with more aggression this time. Neal felt someone knock a couple of teeth loose and heard cracking ribs. As they rained merciless blows upon his already much abused body, they taunted him.

“You’re just a dirty fag.”

“Queer.”

“Wrong.”

“Freak.”

“Twink.”

“Pretty Boy.”

“Slut.”

“Whore.”

***

Thug Five stomped on his hands and seemed to consider him for a second, before ramming a fist into his unprotected midsection. Neal grunted; tears of pain filled his eyes.

"Come on," the man urged, "wake up. I want you to feel every minute of this, Twink."

 

He tried to make out the shadowy form looming over him, no longer sure where he was, not wanting to know what was happening to him. His terrified mind had had enough. It would stop now. It had to. He tried to will the words out through a throat gone desert dry as well as a wadded up piece of silk he was still trying not to choke on; a plea that would touch them, make them stop. But layer by layer, his mind was shutting down on him. He couldn't think, couldn't speak and couldn’t even scream. The pain was an unbearable shock to an already overloaded system and the scream finally came, even if what came out sounded nothing more than a muted whimper. He slapped his victim across the face, waited for a reaction and growled in anger when Neal merely moaned at the strike. The thug raised his hand to strike again, but was stopped by two of the others.

 

“Just leave the Pretty Boy,” they said, “he’s done, man.”

 

Thug Number Three reached down, tangled his fingers in Neal's hair and forced his head back to illustrate their point. His eyes were open, but glazed, unresponsive. He no longer fought the rough treatment. He moaned, but didn't struggle. Thug Number Five nodded in assent and the gang fled the alley with no more thought to their victim.


End file.
